


Molly Hooper: Distraction Extraordinaire

by 221B_akerSt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, My First Fanfic, Not Beta Read, Sherlock is a Damsel in Distress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 21:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221B_akerSt/pseuds/221B_akerSt
Summary: This is my first time writing and posting a fic. Feedback is appreciated! Nothing is beta'd or britpicked, and the only things I take credit for are the mistakes.





	Molly Hooper: Distraction Extraordinaire

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing and posting a fic. Feedback is appreciated! Nothing is beta'd or britpicked, and the only things I take credit for are the mistakes.

It never failed to astonish her just how deeply into trouble an association with the infamous Sherlock Holmes managed to get the decidedly NOT infamous pathologist Molly Hooper.

At this point, one would think she would have gotten used to the constant kerfuffle the man was surrounded by. Like he had his own particular gravitational pull, that only affected skeezy reporters and grubby criminal minds- master or otherwise. It was an exceptionally rare occasion that he came by her lab or her morgue- yes, HERS, Sherlock. Not YOURS. (If he insisted on requesting her assistance, he would simply have to concede sovereignty of said spaces to their rightful ruler)- without some sort of precarious circumstances following in the shadow of that damnable belstaff.

It was one such occasion that led a certain consulting arsehole into the cool underbelly of St. Barts hospital, in search of the Chestnut-haired “Morgue Mouse” that was really anything but.

The doors burst open in such a manner that belied either a normal person had an emergency, or someone with a flair for the dramatic THOUGHT there was an emergency. The banging of metal handles against the morgue wall usually, if not always, signaled the arrival of the latter. It was a morgue, after all. How many emergencies could the dead warrant? Molly was no detective, but even she could deduce who was haughtily striding into the room without raising her head from the last of a day's worth of paperwork.

“Sherlock Holmes, I am ABOUT to head to the locker room and then HOME. If anything you are about to say is going to keep me from the bath I’ve been looking forward to all day, turn around NOW” She demanded, pen scratching against the cheapest paper the department could find for the least-emergent needs of the hospital. When no immediate answer was forthcoming, she huffed in annoyance and looked up.

“Is that BLOOD?”

“...No?” came the response, hesitant and cowed.

“You were NOT supposed to answer that with another question!”

Sherlock Holmes- World’s only consulting detective, the embodiment of “tall dark and handsome”, and supreme insensitive pain in the arse- shuffled his feet and appeared to take great interest in the worn linoleum floor.

“It’s not TECHNICALLY blood. That corn-syrup something-or-other in the fake arm the phlebotomists use for training. I was coming to ask you for help with something and had a minor accident.” Explanation given, he glanced up to gauge her reaction. It was, as he feared, one of amusement.

“Help with what, exactly?” She inquired, fighting a losing battle trying to keep the grin off her face. She could tell by his expression that she wasn’t going to like his request, but damn if she wasn’t going to take advantage of his self-imposed humiliation. Head to toe, he was covered in sticky red goop that dripped from those luscious curls onto his bespoke suit- no amount of dry cleaning prowess would be able to save the rich fabrics from the garish dye. Molly said a quick word of thanks to whatever powers-that-be may have been listening that he had NOT been wearing her favorite purple shirt, and thus it had been spared the grisly fate. Sherlock rolled his eyes and held his hands behind his back. Corn-syrup dye or not, he looked even paler than usual, and his eyes- mercurial, stormy, enchanting- were wary and tired. Not nearly as bright or sharp as they normally were.

“Its for a case” he started, because those were the words that sealed her doom. She would do almost anything to help him with a case, glutton for punishment as she was. Bollocks, but he knew it, too Molly groaned inwardly. If if was for a case, and he already seemed uncertain about requesting her assistance, that meant it was NOT a run-of-the-mill lab test he needed run, or body part he needed access to. Nope, it meant something humiliating, or stressful, or downright exhausting. Not dangerous, though. Sherlock was quite adamant about never exposing Molly to anything remotely dangerous. Well, except for that once, but it wasn’t like he MEANT for the catalyst to get so close to the bunsen burner… Molly was ripped from her musings on what he could possibly be about to ask of her by the abnormally loud echo from Sherlock slamming a hand onto a clean autopsy table as his knees nearly buckled from under him. He cleared his throat abashedly as Molly took a more scrutinizing survey of him. Part of his hair was too dark and matted for all of the red stains to be simply a phlebotomists training tool… She saw it on his face, the instant he registered that she had figured him out.

“SHERLOCK HOLMES, I ASKED if that was BLOOD!” She positively roared, diving for a chair to get beneath him. Too little, too late, unfortunately. He dropped like a dead weight- something Molly was quite familiar with- before she made it to the counter. He propped himself against the cool metal base of the table as she skidded to her knees beside him, pulling gloves on and prodding at his skull, just behind his left ear.

“I didn’t exactly lie” he muttered, wincing as she poked at the gash hidden beneath the sodden hair stuck to his skin. “I really did have a run-in with a fake arm in the service elevator. And I really do need your help for a case.” The absolute git. _He is so lucky his voice has such a damn influence on my mood_ , Molly harrumphed to herself. She felt her heart nearly stop, then beat double-time when he slumped forward and rested his head against her clavicle. The gash wasn’t horribly deep, but was decently wide, and needed suturing. He’d certainly lost more blood than strictly advisable as well, the stubborn idiot. Head wounds always bled like they were life-ending, and this one was no different. All the damn vascular material around the brain meant plenty of blood vessels to be broken.

“Tell me about this case, then” Molly sighed, carefully parting his hair around the steadily oozing laceration. She reached for the sterile suture kit from a nearby tray, thanking her lucky stars that there was one within reach. If she moved, he’d probably continue his slump all the way to the floor, and there was no way she could move him then. She’d be forced to call upstairs for help, he’d likely be admitted, and then he’d sulk for DAYS.

“Don’t want to. Head hurts. You smell nice” Came the mumble from her collarbone. Oh dear. He really had hit his head quite hard.

“Sherlock, what happened to your head, exactly?” she ripped open a packet of gauze and soaked it in betadine. With tentative motions, she attempted to clean the exposed flesh without causing too much more pain. She heard the breath hiss between his teeth as she made contact with raw nerve endings, signalling a failure.

“Case happened. Details later. They’re in...OW… in mind palace. Can’t get…in... right now” His sentences were short, and it sounded as though he bit every word. Molly grew increasingly concerned, especially considering the suture kits in the morgue didn’t have any sort of anesthetic… Her patients never needed it. She gnawed at her bottom lip weighing her options. His breath was achingly controlled and even, though heavy and damp against her skin. Sherlock lifted a hand from where it was braced against the floor, and rested it at her hip. The edge of his thumb skimmed the flesh that was barely uncovered between her scrub top and trousers. The contact was what cemented her decision. Sherlock NEVER made skin contact unless absolutely necessary- I.e, for a case. Molly ripped open more gauze and held it to his head, using pressure but not too aggressively. With her free hand, she dug in her pocket for her mobile. There was a choice, now. The second or third speed dial?

Friend or Family?

“You changed your body wash. It suits you. Citrus blends with your body chemistry much better than floral does” Sherlock sighed almost absentmindedly.

The second number. Friend.

Blood and dyed corn syrup streaked the touch-screen as Molly hit “send”, in such a rush to call reinforcements that she’d forgotten to remove her gloves. Oh well. He didn’t have anything communicable. She’d tested him herself, after all.

“So much for universal precautions” She grumbled, hoisting the device to her ear and holding it in place with her shoulder. The other hand she used to open the pouch with sterilized forceps. Thank SCIENCE the sutures the hospital used were pre-threaded, so she didn’t have to try and get catgut through a damn needle.

He picked up on the second ring. “Molly!” came the amicable voice on the end of the line. “What’s up? Did you get my message about watching Rosie this weekend while I’m at the surgery, or-”

An agitated groan from Sherlock cut him off. “What did you have to go and call JOHN for, dammit!” Her reluctant patient hissed. At the same time, Molly heard “Molly? Who was that?” from the phone. Molly expertly unclipped the forceps to place the curved needle in the slender gap, and refastened the grips.

“John, I’ve a bit of a situation here” She began, using a tone of voice normally reserved for wild animals or agitated toddlers, and giving Sherlock her best _I am in charge here now SHUT UP_ glare. “Sherlock seems to have had some sort of incident, with some kind of head injury. I’m fairly sure he’s concussed, but I haven’t exactly had to deal with living patients in a while. He’s pissed that I called you, but could you come by the morgue and give him a once-over?” Sherlock pulled his head back as far as his neck would allow and glared right back at her, but his gaze held none of his usual bite.

“He’s mad you called? That means it's fairly serious, the bloody prat. I’m on my way, Molls. Try to keep his highness in one damn place and not moving as best you can. Ta.” With an annoyed but concerned huff, John rung off. Molly pushed her phone across the floor and tilted Sherlock’s head to get better light on the wound.

“Sherlock…” she began, and took a deep breath. “I don’t have anesthetic. You can either let me suture this, or wait until John gets here and have him do it properly. Up to you, obviously.” Sherlock rested the back of his head against the table.

“Do it” he ordered. “John sutures like a schoolgirl in her first home ec class. Besides, you have a lighter touch.” Ah, he was back to full sentences, AND he was insulting John. Both were promising signs, even if his voice was still meeker than usual.

“Fair enough. Hold still, then.” Molly commanded, approximating the edges of the cut and pushing the needle through skin. There was a hiss from below. Molly grabbed the needle with another set of forceps and strung it through the other side of the wound, expertly tying the knot.

“Sorry” she mumbled, snipping the excess and moving to the next stitch.

“S’alright” Sherlock grunted through gritted teeth. “I did literally ask for it”. His other hand came up from the floor and rested on her other hip, almost as if he were grounding himself. Molly threaded the needle through his skin again and his body tensed. His thumbs began absently stroking the skin at her waist, as she stitched, snipped the thread, and stitched again. By the time she was placing the final sutures, his breathing was heavy and barely controlled.

“Last one, I promise” she swore, and pushed the needle through again. He gasped out a whine that he desperately tried to hold behind his teeth, and his legs went rigid with the effort of holding still. As Molly guiltily cut the last thread, Sherlock was panting as though he’d sprinted through the underbelly of London, and his eyes were screwed shut to keep her from seeing them water.

“Sherlock? Sherlock! Look at me, you absolute tosser!” Molly demanded, refusing to be distracted by the sensation of his thumbs continuing to arc back and forth across her skin. He obeyed reluctantly, peeling his eyes open and gulping air as she came into focus again. She looked so damn concerned… He hated that look. Like he was terrifying her the way she terrified him. It was only when she looked dumbfounded that he realized he’d said that last bit aloud.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposed.

“Citrus, Molly. And you really ought to wear scrubs like that more often, it was helpfully distracting to appreciate the view down the front while you stitched” he informed her, just as John pushed the morgue door open, and the world went dark. As gravity overtook him and he slumped all the way over, Sherlock smugly noted the pink flush that stained under the smudges of his blood on Molly’s face, down her neck, and even across the chest he had just been using to distract himself.

Wait. Had John heard that?

_Bugger._


End file.
